


Butterfly Graveyard

by Shirimikaze



Category: Stray Kids (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Police, Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Blood and Gore, Brief Mention of Alcoholism, Graphic Description of Corpses, M/M, Morally Ambiguous Characters, Murder, Sorta Happy Ending, alternatively titled: "Minho Goes Through Shit: The Saga", an apt summary of this whole fic is just "fuck the law", brief mention of past bullying, childhood friends minbin, descriptions of murder cases, minbin don't die i promise please don't kick my ass, not as angsty as it sounds based on the tags, not exactly major but not entirely minor character death, very brief mention of past domestic abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-09
Updated: 2019-11-09
Packaged: 2020-12-07 16:26:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20978888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shirimikaze/pseuds/Shirimikaze
Summary: When a string of gruesome murders rattles the city, detective Lee Minho learns that the past is a lonely little thing - no matter how far a person runs from it, it will always try to catch up and claim its due.





	Butterfly Graveyard

**Author's Note:**

> **Prompt #27:**   
_Hey. I know I usually don't leave voice messages like this, but I need you to know that I'm sorry for what's going to happen in the coming days._
> 
> PSA: as mentioned in the tags, in this work I briefly allude to some triggering topics such as abuse, bullying, alcoholism, etc; i've tried my best to limit the inclusion of particularly sensitive elements as much as possible and if i've somehow misrepresented these issues or underestimated them in some way please call me out so I may edit my work, being disrespectful is the last thing i'd want
> 
> PSA 2: *pokes my own fic with a stick* i have no idea what the fuck this is

The corpse was handcuffed to the headboard of a king-sized bed. A young man, age 28 according to the ID found in the apartment. Directly next to the gold chain left hanging around his neck, prominent choke marks were etched into the skin. A broken bottle had been lodged into the deceased's bare chest, right where the heart was situated. The way his lips remained slightly parted gave off the impression of an everlasting soundless plea. The blood had dried off long before the police arrived at the scene. Stray shards of glass could be found scattered along the red-stained bedsheets. The flashes from the forensic photographer’s camera sporadically cast eerie sheens of light onto the deceased’s already pale skin.

Minho stood by the doorway of the victim's bedroom, keeping distance so as not to get in the way of the investigators scanning for fingerprints and collecting samples. He couldn't tear his gaze away from the murdered's bloodshot eyes, still open in an empty stare.

“When I said I was tired of administrative crap, this isn’t quite what I asked for.” The words snapped Minho out of his stupor in an instant. He turned his attention away from the corpse to see Chan approaching him with a frown.

“Nice reminder to be careful what you wish for,” Minho calmly replied. It was rare to have the lieutenant present at a crime scene, which made the current case that much more unnerving. He crossed his arms and leaned back on the wall, gaze lowering in contemplation. “Do you think this is related to the case from 2 weeks ago?” He disliked how even he could hear faint inklings of distress start bleeding into his own voice. Without missing a beat he elaborated, “The amount of detail in the execution of the murders adds up.”

Chan kept eyeing the victim while fiddling with the heavy steel ring he always wore on his thumb. His expression was schooled into practiced calmness, but his fingers were restless. Minho wondered if the lieutenant was even aware of this nervous habit of his. “Could be. We’ll definitely make sure to compare the two victims’ recent contacts to search for any matches,” Chan assured. “But we also shouldn’t automatically follow that assumption just because of how convenient it seems. The city’s big enough for more than one freak to roam around at the same time.”

The hypothesis made Minho purse his lips, but he swallowed back any retort that might have wanted to make its way out, and mulled over the situation again. “You’re right,” is all he said eventually, partially to try and convince himself as well. “I’ll make a full report when I get more information from Woojin. Expect it on your desk by the weekend. Call me if you need any help with questioning possible suspects.”

“Thank you for the hard work,” Chan told him earnestly despite his displeasure with the situation. With a nod, he was on his way to approach one of the inspectors and dish out instructions on how to conduct the search for evidence.

Minho allowed himself one last glance at the blood clinging to the corpse’s skin before turning away and searching for something productive to busy himself with.

  
  
  


The strong artificial lighting in the coroner’s lab was an almost startling change from the dim streets outside, drained of all colour by the late evening. Minho reflexively squinted as he entered the rather spacious facility. While walking towards the scrub-clad figure in the other end of the room, he left a beer bottle on the desk by one of the walls. “Don’t tell Chan about this.”

Woojin simply replied with a hearty chuckle. “Thanks. Definitely gonna need it after tonight’s shift.” When Minho arrived by the coroner’s side, the two directed their attention to the corpse on the examination table. Woojin had cleaned the victim of all the blood and glass shards. Those empty eyes were closed to their rest, no longer left to bore into nothingness. “As far as clues go, there isn’t anything too odd with this one either,” the coroner explained, “so I don’t think I’ll manage to tell you anything crucial for the investigation.”

“Still, humour me. Give me the ugly details.”

Always one to oblige, Woojin began painting a scene for him with his words. He told Minho of the great amount of alcohol found in the body’s lungs, proven to be from the same bottle the heart was mangled with. While listing all the signs of a death by drowning, the coroner’s fingers followed an invisible trail along the deceased’s skin to support his deductions, tracing below the lips, ghosting past the column of the throat, lightly tapping at the sternum on a path charted by his words. He prodded at the body without a speck of hesitation to hinder his movements, as if the knowledge that this had not long ago been a living, breathing human was of no relevance to him.

Listening on, Minho tried his best to recreate the sequence of events in his head. His memories of the crime scene melded together with all the likely courses of action he could think of that fit both the setting and the damage left behind. His mind played a blurry, out-of-focus montage of images of the man in front of him getting choked with the chain that had hung around his neck, weakened and brought to his knees, then forced to choke on the burning liquid shoved down his throat until his lungs gave out, all culminating in a chest full of glass and blood.

The detective stood motionless even a while after Woojin was done speaking. Arms crossed over his chest, eyebrows furrowed, he tried to find a thread of sense to tie his thoughts together with. It was in moments like these that he was endlessly grateful for Woojin’s patience with him, the two long used to each other’s habits and oddities at work.

“So just like with the previous one, this was all planned way in advance. Too much effort for a simple hit,” Minho elaborated after a short silence, almost as if rambling to himself. “The goal wasn’t just to kill, it’s to make a statement with the shape in which the corpses were left.”

“You think the same person is responsible for both cases?”

“Just a gut feeling," he answered, voice dipping slightly lower. "Even if it was done by two separate murderers, it could’ve been a coordinated effort. But we’ll see where the investigation leads us," he highlighted the thought with a sigh. "Thanks for the information. If you’ll excuse me, I got paperwork to bullshit.”

When Minho turned around to leave, he felt a hand quickly latch onto his wrist to stop him. He looked back to find Woojin giving him a long, stern look.

“Take care.”

The concern in the coroner’s expression made a small smile twist up a corner of Minho’s lips.

“I will.”

  
  


Minho's only company at this hour of the night were the two old desk lamps illuminating his workspace. His glasses kept on slipping down his nose bridge as he wrapped up the written report on the recent murder. Several times he almost makes simple mistakes in his sentences due to the storm of thoughts thundering in his head.

His gaze didn’t get drawn away from his work when he heard the door to his office open, the sound almost grating on the otherwise silent floor. Footsteps approached him and a thin stack of papers was slapped onto the edge of his desk. 

"You don’t plan on spending the entire night here, do you?" a familiar voice asked.

“What are you going to do about it? Report me to the police?”

The newest recruit of the crime department, Jisu, simply rolled her eyes at him. “If you can still joke around, then you’re fine. Good.”

“Ever doubted me?”

“You’ve been looking a bit lost these days.”

“You know summer isn’t close to being my favourite time of the year. Not even chasing after actual psychopaths has quite the same appeal in this weather.” On-brand as far as his horribly dry humour went, but he elicited a flat snort from Jisu nonetheless. The sound brought him comfort somehow. Finally peeling his gaze away from his paperwork, he told her in a softer tone, “Go get some rest.”

“See you tomorrow.” There was a ghost of worry haunting the words, as if aiming to bind Minho in an unspoken promise to be present and well in the coming day.

Deep down, he wished for the same.

Jisu’s slow steps out were followed by that same old creak of the office door being closed. Minho was briefly reminded of all the times they had considered changing the hinges on that old thing, but the sporadic emergence of newer and more urgent matters to tend to had turned the inconvenience into a bit of familiarity. That seemed to be a recurring pattern with various issues in his life.

All the furniture in the room was made of the same dull, cheap wood that had long gone past its best days. The faintly chipped chairs, drawers, and tables could make a person feel as if time had frozen. Several cork boards with large maps of the city hung on the walls on either side. There were still tiny puncture holes at some points in them left from previous cases, when Minho would pin little notes and sometimes pictures to particular locations, in a pattern that would likely make little sense to anybody else. The thumbtacks were still left on the board, waiting for Minho to arrange them into a neat little constellation again, a trail of glowless stars in which nothing good was ever written.

His hand stills over the final few words of his report. Eyebrows drawn together in contemplation, he pushes his chair back to stand up and rolls his stiffened shoulders. Without any needless grace he begins gathering all the papers on his desk in a haphazard pile and moves them away to a different table in the office. He only left the standard-size manila folder that had been sitting on the periphery of his workspace the entire time and emptied its contents on the now clear surface.

It was a set of about a dozen photos, all different angles of the gruesome crime he had witnessed a few days ago. He had asked the photographer to deliver the folder to him immediately after it was complete. It felt like looking at the same scene through a different pair of eyes. He surmised that it could help him see something that perhaps had previously failed to catch his attention. The detail and focus of the photos would be uncomfortably vivid if not for the faint glimmer of the desk lamp light gliding along their surface and distracting from the imagery.

Minho tugs one of the desk drawers open to retrieve another folder, identical to the one already spread before him. A sticker with a date and a name in the top corner is its only distinctive feature. He hadn’t notified the staff in charge of the archive that he’d kept that one in his possession, and he hoped he wouldn’t have to. With a careful, yet impatient touch, the detective takes out the photoset placed inside and began arranging it on the desk alongside the first one.

Different body, different wounds, yet the same grotesque ambiance. The older pictures were from two weeks ago, also depicting a man in his 20s. The victim was laid on the floor of his apartment living room with a folding knife sticking out of his throat. A sickening imitation of a smile was carved onto his face, leaving his features mangled. The dried-up blood pooled around the head was reminiscent of a twisted crimson halo. Minho had riddled the circumstances of this one with Woojin as well; due to an indentation at the back of the head, they had determined that the victim’s demise was a hit with a blunt object. The cuts were too clean to have been inflicted on a living, struggling person.

Looking at the corpse, he wasn’t supposed to see much more than another task to add to the pile on his desk, one more lost life reduced to a file and a set of pictures that would collect dust in their archives. Instead, he couldn’t separate himself from the knowledge that it was the mutilated face of his old high school bully looking back at him with lustreless eyes.

It had been a long while since Minho had last seen the bastard, too long. The detective considered that to be a page of his life that he had torn out and cast aside for good. Yet upon arrival at the crime scene on that day, for a few tight-strung seconds he had felt sixteen all over again. Petty insults thrown in the school hallways and the lifeless shade of bruises blooming on skin had floated through his mind while he had been at work. Instead of the taunting sneer immortalized in Minho’s memories, however, the smirk on the victim’s face that day was drawn by a blade, hollow and drained of all the emotions it used to carry a decade ago.

Minho had seen many a corpse in his years on the job, all in various stages of ruination, but never until that moment had he seen someone he personally knew in such a state. Mulling over it, he supposed that no amount of experience or professionalism could had stopped the jolt of shock that had curled his fingers into a weak fist. It bluntly put into perspective the fact that every single acquaintance of his, even he himself, was mortal and susceptible to an end of this sort. His worlds had collided in an unsettling way.

That same disillusionment stung whenever he saw the assortment of pictures of one of his old flings with a bottle driven into his chest. A heartbreaker with a broken heart. He looked like late night arguments, like the stench of alcohol reeking from half-assed apologies, like a breakup that should’ve stayed forgotten.

Minho had avoided mentioning that he knew both victims personally. The fact bitterly lingered at the back of his throat, but he didn’t deem it relevant enough to the search to share with the department. Both were old stories that had no place in his present. He’s certain that his work ethic would be under scrutiny if he gives his coworkers doubts of emotional involvement. He refused to risk losing his right to these investigations.

It wasn't any sort of faded attachment to the victims or neglected nostalgia for the past that made the two cases weigh on Minho so much. Going off of rusty memories, he could imagine why people would have held a grudge on those two. He couldn’t possibly have been the only one to have become aware of their vices throughout the years. The list of possible motives was plentiful, regardless of how petty some of them might be. Even pity couldn't manage to nestle itself into the cracks in his heart.

But why now, and why around the same time? It was too much of a coincidence for it not to gnaw at his mind. Having his past dug up like this came with a maddening sense of vulnerability which he wanted to kill at the root. This was getting personal, and his fastest chance of ending it was to catch the murderer.

Even so, fate is a whimsical thing. In spite of their rarity, coincidences of this scale aren’t implausible. Minho's rational self clings to the hope that he isn’t merely overthinking this, that he hasn’t just fallen captive to a self-induced placebo effect. He carefully spread out all the pictures from the two crime scenes on his desk. The detective's gaze slowly raked through all of them, looking for anything that might hint at a possible connection.

Second after second, time got swallowed by the thick silence settled in the dim office, dragged away into the irreversible, much like Minho himself.

  
  
  
  


_ The hand holding Minho’s own soothingly rubbed a thumb back and forth over his skin. “I’m so sorry you had to go through that.” _

_ “It’s fine,” Minho assured, tone even. “It was an incredibly long time ago. Can’t bring myself to get upset over something I barely remember anymore.” _

_ “Then why are you shaking?” _

_ The question made Minho tense up. The fact that he hadn’t even realised it himself until it was pointed out made a pang of bashfulness hit him. It wasn’t even the story itself that had upset him; the relief of finally granting freedom to secrets that had only ever been kept locked inside was enough to break a dam within him and turn the shaking into full-body shudders. _

_ The hand that gently caressed the back of his palm let him go. A single heartbeat later, two arms wrapped around his waist and held him close. From where they were sitting on the rooftop of their apartment building, the view in each direction was a concrete city landscape stretching till the horizon, countless homes of countless people just like them, but at the moment it didn’t feel like anything aside from the two of them was real. Minho looked away, hid himself from the faint gusts of wind gliding over his skin, instead preferring to bury himself in the embrace until his breathing evened out. _

_ “I can’t promise that you’ll never have to go through something so horrible again. I wish I could.” A pair of lips, just as warm as the words that poured out of them, chastely pressed against the side of Minho’s neck. “But what I can promise is that I’ll try my best to keep you safe for as long as I’m by your side.” _

  
  
  


Sometimes after late shifts, when the hazy hours of the night were kind enough to slowly drain away all the stress generated by work, Minho stayed back to have a drink or two with Woojin. If asked directly, he’d reply that it was only a recurring event because Woojin paid, but they both knew that he was simply too proud to admit his fondness of the older.

Minho admired how Woojin kept a bright sense of humour and easy smiles all in spite of his line of work. Perhaps exactly because of it. The topics of conversation varied, and could often branch out into abstract territories even long before either of them reached the threshold of tipsiness. Sometimes glass after glass got dried out to the carefree rumble of plain office gossip, and sometimes the liqueur sweetened candid thoughts about life.

“You know, you’re quite the tough nut to crack,” Woojin had said one night, bunny teeth peeking out from his smile. “I barely know anything about what you’ve been up to before graduating from the police academy. You don’t share much.”

Minho had lifted his glass off the table and thoughtfully looked at the dark liquid inside as he swirled it. “Are you implying the whole mystery jig isn’t part of my charm?” His eyes flitted to Woojin and he threw a bad wink for extra effect.

Woojin had rolled his eyes at him with a dry chuckle, but the question had been effectively dropped. He knew when to take a jab at Minho’s nonsense and when to simply leave him be.

The words had remained with Minho, though. On his way home from the bar, he had gone on a brief introspection trip. He had concluded that he wasn’t closed off, per se; he preferred to consider himself a person who simply treasured their personal space. He revealed neither too little, nor too much.

There were the things he openly shared with everyone within his orbit. His passion for his job, his appreciation for quaint coffee shops and small animals, his displeasure with the bubblegum pop music Jisu always played while filing away data in the archives, to name a few.

There were the things he kept safe inside the confines of his heart. The quiet affection for his coworkers, the pangs of loneliness found during early mornings in his empty apartment, the lingering warmth of a lost love.

Then, there were the things he had only ever confided in one person.

When Chan had knocked on the door of Minho’s office with news of a new corpse almost several weeks after the previous case, the detective had followed along with a desperate sort of eagerness to find out more, but for all the wrong reasons. He wondered which forsaken ache of his would come back to haunt him next.

The report this time had come from a bar in a nameless narrow street downtown. The long alleyway between the small establishment and the neighbouring building led to a dead end with a dumpster. One of the employees had stumbled upon the body while taking out the trash after a night shift. The entrance was now sealed by the vivid yellow of taut police tape.

The stench became progressively more unbearable the closer the investigation squad got to the end of the alley. Even beneath the overwhelming smell of trash, the tangs of dried up blood and something charred irritated the senses. At the end, from between his coworkers from other divisions already at the scene, Minho saw the body.

Even with half the face scorched to the bone and with 20 years worth of life having contorted the murdered’s features since the last time Minho had seen him, it wasn’t difficult to recognize one of his mother’s old lovers.

The corpse had been nonchalantly tossed at the foot of the trash heap like simply another piece of garbage meant for disposal. Lifeless limbs were sprawled out in odd angles. With how the body was left to lie sideways, part of the face was obscured, but the wide expanse of burned flesh spanning from the jawline to the forehead was difficult to miss. The eye on the side of the face that hadn't been destroyed by fire was gouged out in what seemed like an attempt at a yin-yang effect.

Minho didn’t keep many memories of the guy. In stark contrast to the attention his mother had been lathered in, Minho had never received much more than indifferent silence and the occasional glare. It was a dynamic he had learned to live with, not wishing to interfere with his mother’s happiness in any way. The most that man had ever spoken to Minho at the same time was the one night he had come home drunk, a staggering current of untamed anger, and had lashed out at an unassuming child for always getting in the way and taking up too much of his mother’s attention.

Minho never told her about it. The small bruises that were burned into his skin with a cigarette on that night remained hidden behind high-collared sweaters until they vanished without a trace. Nothing of the sort ever happened again after that. Eventually, Minho’s mother had cut all ties with that man anyway, the two having had simply drifted apart, and the hurtful pricks at the thought of him gradually faded away in a similar manner.

There were things Minho had only ever confided in one person, and he couldn’t believe how he hadn’t managed to connect the dots earlier.

The way the head of the corpse was twisted made the tiny cigarette burn marks scattered along the side of the sickly pale neck all the more visible. A deeply-rooted sense of disbelief made Minho take a step back, then one more, and before he knew it, he had wound up outside the alley. He ducked behind one of the cars parked right by the curb, waiting for his panic to settle down.

He found himself wishing the entire body had been burned beyond the point of being recognizable. He feverishly wished that none of this had seemed familiar, that none of this had made sense, but the epiphany had already sunk its fangs into him and would never let go.

  
  


_ The sun lulled the small neighborhood into a quiet state of contentment. Windows and balcony doors stayed closed to the crawling heat and the empty streets were soaked in all the serenity of a midday nap as well. Only three figures stood in front of the apartment building, huddled under whatever humble shade could be found nearby. _

_ Minho hid behind his mother’s skirt while she excitedly conversed with the real estate agent about terms and details he just couldn’t wrap his head around. Tuning out the discussion, he shifted his attention to the faded cream paint on the outer walls of the apartment building, tracing all the splashes of graffiti paint and cracks along the surface. If all goes well they’d be moving in here, somewhere on one of the lower floors, and Minho would have to learn to call this place home. _

_ His gaze went up, up, up, past flower pots perched on windowsills and various colours hanging heavy on laundry lines, until he met another pair of eyes. _

_ From one of the balconies, a small boy was staring back at him. He couldn’t have been older than Minho himself. Wide, curious eyes were fixed on Minho, and as soon as the boy caught that his gaze was reciprocated, a sunny smile broke out on his face and a tiny hand waved excitedly. _

_ Minho found it surprisingly easy to mirror the smile and return the wave, albeit a tad more shyly. _

_ Eventually, the real estate agent offered them to come inside for a proper tour of the discussed apartment. Walking hand in hand with his mother, Minho kept looking upwards until he could no longer see the balconies. His lower lip jutted out in a small pout when the view got obstructed. _

Minho followed the elusive trail of neon signs, cigarette smoke, and animated chatter, much like an Alice slipping deeper into a distorted wonderland. His descent down the rabbit hole led him inside a bar downtown he had only been given the location of. Slinking past the bouncers who didn’t give him more than a routine once-over, he made his way through the crowd until he reached a specific one of the private booths.

He wasn’t burning with desire to be here. This was meant to be a worst-case scenario course of action, a cop-out for when he hit a dead end in his investigations, but it felt as if he’d go insane if he didn’t hear the thoughts trapped inside his head get validated by a third party. Minho swallowed his pride with the reminder that he had someone he wanted to protect, that he wasn’t just doing this for his own sake anymore.

A thick velvet curtain is what kept the booth hidden from prying eyes. Pulling it aside, Minho was greeted by the sight of his Cheshire cat already comfortably settled on one side of the table with a cocktail in hand.

A lively pair of eyes turned to Minho and a lazy smile curled around a greeting of “Long time no see.”

“Your taste in bars remains as tacky as ever, Han,” was all the reply Minho offered as he settled on the adaject sofa. The upholstery and the decorative cushions placed on each end were all from that same heavy red velvet as the curtains.

Han cocked his head to the side with the beginnings of a smirk playing on his lips. “Is this your way of saying you missed me? Can’t say I’m not touched.”

Beneath the easy banter and frivolous gestures, Minho knew that those same pretty eyes could tear people apart piece by piece. He doubted that most who have had the misfortune of needing Han’s services were even aware of the knife he kept tucked inside his jacket sleeve at all times.

After a steady sip of his cocktail, some saccharine violet concoction, Han’s expression settled into something more serious. “But you didn’t call me just to catch up, did you?”

Throughout the years, Minho had crossed paths with many a pawn of the underground, but he had only entangled paths with one. He didn’t even know his real name behind the business alias, but he didn’t need to. Behind the thick velvet curtain, they were nothing more than an information broker and a simple customer.

Minho wordlessly retrieved an envelope from the inside of his coat and slid it across the table. He observed the way the way Han set down his cocktail glass and pulled out the three pictures that were placed inside, spreading them out in his hand like playing cards. One arm draped over the sofa backrest, legs loosely crossed, Han seemed relaxed, but his eyes were sharp as he took in the faces Minho wanted him to see.

He nodded when he was done studying the pictures, more to himself than to his companion. "This seems to be fate." Only his eyes shifted to Minho before he spoke. "They're dead now, aren't they?"

Hope wrung the air out of Minho’s lungs. "You know them?"

"Yes and no. I'm only aware of these people's existence because I got paid to dig out information about them. If it has gotten to the point where someone like you is getting involved, then it's not too difficult to guess what my intel was used for."

"By whom?” Slow, clear, the words came out heavier than intended. The information broker only pursed his lips without giving an answer and Minho’s fingers involuntarily curled into a weak fist at his side. “I just want the name, Han. Nothing more, nothing less.”

"And this is where our interests diverge.” The broker put it so simply, as if there was nothing he could do about it. “Confidentiality is a key point of my services, you see. I wouldn't reveal my clients' identities just like that, the same way I wouldn't tell anybody about how you've been coming to me whenever one of your cases gets particularly twisted.”

Minho tried his best to keep frustration from showing on his face. As much as he hated being at other people's mercy, he understood that he was balanced on a blade's edge here. He reached inside his jacket pocket and, without looking away from Han, tossed a wad of cash tied with a rubber band on the table. “And how much does this confidentiality of yours cost?”

Han only spared the money an unimpressed once-over. “You wound me, detective.” The edge of mockery made the words even colder. “If I was this cheap about the secrets entrusted to me, I wouldn’t have lasted very long in this business, now, would I?”

Minho’s jaw clenched. He was leading a losing battle in a lost war, he knew that best. His throat felt unpleasantly dry when he swallowed.

"If you won't sell what you know, then trade it."

The glint of interest in Han's expression gave him a rush of power. He carried on with steel certainty. "I'm offering you an exchange - information for information. I’m sure you can find some use for the data I have access to. Registry files, criminal records, classified documentation - take your pick."

Even after the words left his mouth, Minho couldn't find it in him to regret them. There were suspicions that had been eating away at him from the inside out ever since he saw that corpse. Perhaps impatience was getting the best of him, but he needed to hear it from someone else. Hunting for the confirmation he wanted was a gamble and he had already thrown his dice.

Minho could feel his offer being weighed in the silence that settled inside the booth. Each passing second was chipping away at his nerves, but part of his tension dissipated when the broker eventually spoke up without the earlier frigidness. "You know how to play this game, Lee. I like that about you,” Han said with one of his trademark smirks. “I'm only agreeing to your terms because you're a loyal customer.”

Han leaned forward over the table until he was a whisper away from Minho’s ear. “Seo Changbin,” he said, voice unfittingly smooth for the jagged truths it told. “That's the guy you're looking for."

_ “Hold still, I might accidentally irritate the wound if you wiggle around too much.” _

_ “What, with nothing but a cotton pad? The only irritated thing here is you.” _

_ “You’re really one ungrateful bastard.” _

_ Minho made a point of sounding as exasperated as possible, but he still cleaned the dried blood off Changbin’s knuckles at the same gentle pace. The two of them sat on Minho’s bed, still in their rumpled high school uniforms, surrounded by the contents of a first aid kit messily strewn around them on the duvet. _

_ “Come on, don’t be mad.” Minho hated how he could hear Changbin’s teasing smirk. Hated how Changbin was still focusing on putting him at ease even at a time like this. “This more caring side of you ain’t too bad at all.” _

_ "Don't get used to it,” Minho warned. “Patching you up is definitely not something I want to turn into a routine." Eyebrows knit together in concentration, he turned Changbin’s hand in any angle he could to check whether he hadn’t missed a spot. _

_ Ugly shades of red and purple gnawed on Changbin’s skin where his fists had collided with flesh and bone not even an hour ago. Minho tried to be quicker with the gauze so that he wouldn’t have to look at the bruises any longer than he needed to. _

_ Changbin brushed off all his fretting with an easy chuckle. "What’s a guy without a few battle scars? I looked cool as fuck, be honest." _

_ Minho’s nerves snapped like a string. "The guy had a knife, Changbin!” He finally looked up to fix Changbin with a glare, equal parts angry and scared. “Why aren’t you taking this seriously? What the hell would we have done if he had actually decided to use it?" _

_ "But he didn't,” Changbin pressed back, just as unrelenting. “He flaunted it too much to have possibly been serious about it. I know those types of assholes.” Changbin was the one holding Minho’s hands now, to keep both of them grounded. “I just want you to relax now, it’s all over. You won’t get bothered anymore." _

_ Minho did nothing but revel in the warmth of the touch until he felt like he could speak without shouting again. "Just... just don't impulsively jump into messes that don't directly involve you. Please.” It took physical effort to keep his voice from wavering. “You're going to get hurt one day if you keep going like this." He considered adding that he wouldn’t possibly be able to live it down if Changbin ever got in harm’s way because of him, but the words were stuck in his throat, choking him into silence. _

_ "I'd say someone deliberately going out of their way to fuck with my best friend involves me a fair amount." _

_ Minho didn't have a fitting label for the bittersweet mess of emotions that gripped his heart at that. He threw Changbin a long look, and once he saw nothing but unwavering determination staring back at him, he let out a long sigh. "You're too stubborn for your own good." His bangs hid his expression once his head hung low, but he wordlessly interlocked his fingers with Changbin's and gave him a soft squeeze, careful not to graze any of his wounds. _

Thinking back on it, Minho supposed his fate had been sealed on that day he had braved to wave back at a six-year-old Changbin shortly before moving in. They had been the only brats around the same age in that apartment building; playing outside as kids and walking together to school as teens had seemed just about inevitable. Somewhere down the line all those small moments spent in mundane settings had snowballed into an unspoken sense of security that they always had each other only a few steps away. He should’ve known back then that he was in this for life.

Minho had had a lot of time to think everything through, many sleepless hours worth of it. Resigning to the fact that his childhood best friend had been driven to utter psychopathy was nothing short of crushing, but it helped him understand that the motives were rather straightforward. The trail of blood left after Changbin spelled out the simple message that he refused to let Minho lock him away in the past like all the rest. He wouldn’t allow Minho to treat him as if he were a bad memory.

It was a bitter brand of poetic justice that karma caught up to Minho embodied by the one person who knew how wound him the deepest.

Shortly past sunrise Minho reached his destination. His gaze went up, up, up, past flower pots perched on windowsills and various colours hanging heavy on laundry lines, but the building no longer seemed fascinatingly tall to him the way it once did. He hadn't been here since he had left for the police academy after high school.

When he had been accepted and moved out, his mother went to live with his aunt a few cities over as to not be lonely. Minho was aware he’d chosen a career path that would take away most of his time and attention, so he had insisted on her staying where she’d be happier even after he’d returned to his hometown. He still visited them for holidays, but spent most of his days in a small apartment of his own not too far from his workplace.

It wasn’t difficult to sneak inside one of the buildings on the opposite side of the street. Minho climbed up the emergency staircase until he reached the landing between the top floor and the roof, where he knew it would be highly unlikely for anybody to stumble upon him and question his presence. He picked a spot by the window facing his old home and commenced his watch.

Minho still remembered which balcony had belonged to Changbin’s family off by heart.

He figured the place where it had all begun was the best to start his search from. Using his day off work to observe whether Changbin still lived there or at least used his old apartment to execute his plans wasn’t one of Minho’s more intricate strategies, but it was the safest he had. Impatience and attempts at shortcuts would give him away, be it to his department or to Changbin.

Reporting his findings to his coworkers was not an option. This was a mess Minho was determined to fix on his own at all costs. He would save Changbin from what he had become, even if it was the last thing he would do.

_ “I don’t feel like going home yet.” _

_ That was all Minho had to say for him and Changbin to end up in the unfamiliar outskirts of town on a weekday afternoon. They had taken the same bus line they’ve been going home with for years now, but instead of getting off at the usual stop closest to their building, they had let themselves get whisked away as far as the route would take them. _

_ It wasn’t like the sights in the far end of the city were any different from the neighbourhood they had grown up in. East or west, rust crawled up the lamp posts and cracks ruptured the asphalt all the same. Nevertheless, there was a sense of adventure in walking down familiar-looking streets with names that were foreign on the tongue. _

_ With no destination in mind other than “away”, eventually the apartment buildings got sparser until concrete gave way to patches of grass and untamed shrubs. There was a dip in the landscape that melded into a small hill not too far away from the end of town. From where the two boys stood, they could see the beginnings of vivid yellows blooming on the horizon. _

_ “A sunflower field!” Changbin hadn’t even waited for Minho to acknowledge his exclamation before dashing down the mild slope ahead. _

_ “Wait up, dumbass!” As easy as that it turned into a race. The sunflowers were still short and thin, making it easy to notice the narrow dirt pathways that ran through the wide field like its veins. Minho chased after Changbin, shouting and blissed out laughter echoing in the wind, the distance between them shortening until it all but disappeared. It took Minho one leap then to tackle Changbin to the ground in a pile of limbs. _

_ After the brief shock of the fall and a loud groan, the two of them erupted in a fit of giggles between all the heavy panting for breath. Their school uniforms became a mess of dirt and grass stains, but that was a concern for another time. _

_ Minho moved to prop himself up on his arms and stand up, but he froze in place when he spared a glance at Changbin’s face. The way his bangs messily fell over his face made them look impossibly soft. A stray ray of sunlight fell on the droplet of sweat slowly rolling down his temple. He smiled with his whole face, nose and eyes scrunching up in lines of pure delight. _

_ Surrounded by a flower field in early summer, Minho caught himself thinking that nothing bloomed as pretty as Changbin’s smile. _

_ Minho’s laughter faded to an awed silence. Something sweet and heavy stirred in his chest. _

_ Changbin’s giggles also simmered down when he caught Minho staring. “What are you looking at?” The smile never left his face. _

_ Instead of answering him, Minho simply reached out to the side of the tiny clearing the two were lying down on and grabbed one of the sunflowers closest to them. It was still far from full bloom, barely the size of a palm, but soft yellow petals had already begun sprouting from the sides. Minho plucked the flower off the stem and gently placed it in Changbin’s hair. _

_ “You don’t look half bad in warm colours,” is all the explanation Minho gave. The blush that tinted Changbin’s cheeks a soft shade of red proved him right. _

When there was no more light illuminating any of the apartment windows from the inside and all the silhouettes were sound asleep, Minho took his leave. Throughout the day he noticed that what once used to be Changbin’s home was now occupied by people he had never seen before in his life, no traces of the previous owners to be seen. Figures had gone in and out of the building, yet no trace of something that would bring Minho closer to his goal aside from confirmation that he’d have to search elsewhere.

Minho distanced himself from that street until he could catch a taxi from a nondescript spot in the neighbourhood that couldn’t get linked to his recent whereabouts. A weary silence hung around him during the ride to his place. Wracking his brain for what course of action to follow next achieved nothing but make him realise just how deep into his bones exhaustion had seeped. He decided those were thoughts better left for the morning.

The clear echo of Minho’s footsteps died out between empty staircase landings and shadow-clad walls. Reaching the floor he lived on, he flicked on the lightswitch next to the stairs as per routine. The weak fluorescent glow revealed something placed in front of the door to his apartment. The rhythmic patter of his steps hitched at the same time as his breathing.

Even from a short distance Minho could make out the lines and colours of the sunflower bouquet waiting for him down the dim hallway. Once he dared to approach, he noticed there was a ribbon-tied box beside the flowers as well. His steps were no longer bold enough to echo.

He was certain nobody had followed him inside the building. There were no convenient hiding spots on the floor, either. Yet, standing in front of the two objects, all his senses were straining in alarm. It took a while of apprehensive staring until Minho’s rational self hastily unlocked the front door and picked the unwanted gifts off the ground.

The click of the deadbolt was unforgivingly harsh against the quiet of the empty apartment. Kicking his shoes off, Minho rushed to his living room without even hanging his jacket. He dropped the bouquet on one end of the coffee table and began unwrapping the box with frenzied fingers and a desperation for this all to be over. The ribbon fell tattered and forgotten to the floor, the lid of the box following not long after.

The lifeless heart was still fresh. The dark blood that had pooled around it carried the smell of a recent death. Atop it, a heavy steel ring was placed, one that Minho had grown quite familiar with after all the times he had seen his lieutenant nervously play with it.

Minho didn’t have the strength to make it to the couch. He sank to the floor in front of the coffee table, unblinking, unmoving. His throat felt too parched to produce a sound.

Seconds melted together into minutes. He didn’t know how long he had spent sitting like that without a single coherent thought crossing his mind. The metallic smell of blood that spread through the room didn’t allow him the luxury of losing consciousness.

At some point Minho’s trance was broken by a prolonged beep from his home phone signalling new voicemail. He couldn’t recall expecting to be contacted by anyone, much less so late at night. He sat still, waiting for the message to automatically play after the tone.

_ “Hey. Don’t you think stalking people is in poor taste? I’m sure you can do better than that. You know where to find me, after all.” _

The way Changbin spoke so calmly of it was mockery enough on its own. Minho closed his eyes and accepted his loss. He had been trapped in check mate from the very start.

The recording continued after a tension-laden pause.

_ "I know I don’t usually leave voice messages like this. But I need you to know that I’m sorry. I’m sorry for what’s about to happen in the coming days.” _

Another long tone signalled the end of the message and Minho was left at the hands of overwhelming silence once more.

The grim promise of something lying in wait in the coming days was but an incentive for Minho to not give up on this chase. The heart showed just how much destruction Changbin was capable of causing if he wanted to. It was as much of a plea to be found as it was a threat for more havoc if Minho dared to run away again. He was at the palm of Changbin's hand.

_ You know where to find me, after all. _

Minho’s gaze fell upon the sunflowers again. It wasn’t a matter of weighing options. There was only one thing left for him to do.

_ The sun still struggled to rise high enough to spill light onto the streets. The train they had to catch was set to depart very early in the morning. Even while Minho dragged the last of his bags down to the car, his mother kept listing off items out loud and asking him whether he was certain he had packed everything. It wasn’t like she couldn’t just ship any forgotten objects to Minho after he arrived to the police academy dorms, but it was nonetheless endearing how excited she was. _

_ Minho plopped in the shotgun seat with an exaggerated sigh after lugging around so much weight. His mother followed right after, settling next to him in the driver’s seat with a certain bounce to her movements despite the fact that they still had plenty of time. _

_ “You said goodbye to Changbinnie, right?” she asked in passing while fastening her seatbelt. She couldn’t have possibly seen the way Minho’s fingers dug into the side of his seat once the words left her mouth. _

_ Through the car window, Minho spared one last glance at his home. He still wasn’t completely sure whether he had made the right decision. Was a good choice supposed to hurt this much? His thoughts and emotions were stuck in a knot. _

_ It was scary. Having someone to care for was supposed to be easy, but Minho cherished Changbin to the point where he just didn’t know what to do with himself. The feelings kept bubbling and growing and spilling out from the cavities between his ribs. Even now he couldn’t help the way warmth pooled in his chest at the thought of Changbin. His heart beat faster than he could keep up with. _

_ If he couldn’t have managed to make sense of the feelings he had for Changbin until now, then he couldn’t possibly hope to make Changbin understand them either. Minho tried to convince himself that it would be better for the both of them this way. _

_ “Yeah,” Minho lied, watching the way the scenery around him shifted when his mother drove away. _

Minho waited until the noon sun began its descent, around the time he and Changbin used to get out of classes when they were still kids. The late summer horizon was painted in the tired colours of withering sunflowers. Where he once remembered nothing but narrow dirt paths surrounded by greenery, now an asphalted road ran along the edge of the field, leading away from the city. Things had changed in the decade during which he hadn’t stepped foot in the outskirts. Minho avoided the laid out path in favour of trudging through the tideless sea of wilting petals.

Once he reached the beginning of the field atop the small hill, Minho noticed that a large building now stood far on the other side where there used to be nothing but empty expanses of grassy land. Considering the remote location, his only guess was that it was meant to be a factory of some sort. Rough flower stems parted in his wake and brushed the backs of his palms while he approached at a steady pace.

The closer Minho got, the more obvious it became that the factory had been abandoned for a while now. Grime and eerie silence have nestled themselves deep in any outer crevices. Broken shards of glass stuck out from the window panes, as if staying on guard. Quiet shadows hung in wait from the walls.

Goosebumps rose on Minho’s skin once he passed the front gate with the busted lock. The sensation soothed him. It told him that he still had fear left in him, that he hadn’t completely lost his mind yet. Deft fingers found their way to the grip of the gun strapped to his hip. His pulse played a frantic beat on the inside of his skin, an inconsolable funeral march.

Whatever measly dribbles of sunlight filtered in through the broken windows high up were Minho’s only guide through the disarray of small debris, motionless assembly lines, and empty crates left inside with no pattern nor reason. His ribcage felt too tight for his lungs. With cautious steps he scanned the vicinity, straining his hearing for even the faintest of sounds hidden in the dark, rounding corners with swiftness honed by years of police training and a decade’s worth of longing.

Trapped in the silence and dust, minutes felt like small eternities; Minho explored almost the entirety of the first floor without finding a trace of life anywhere. In a crossroad between several rusty machines he stopped in his tracks. The growing worry of having drawn the wrong conclusion made anger and frustration shake his grasp on his gun.

It took no longer than the blink of an eye during that cloudy moment of doubt for two strong arms to wrap themselves around Minho’s neck from behind in a choke hold. Compared to his garbled sputters for air, the familiar voice that sneered right into his ear was loud and clear.

"Did you miss me?"

Minho tried twisting his body around to elbow Changbin in the gut, but Changbin used the momentum to grab Minho by the bicep and violently slam him into the wall of the nearest column. Minho’s gun clattered to the ground. Changbin’s fingers latched onto his neck and kept him pinned.

Instinctively Minho reached up to grab Changbin’s wrists in a struggling attempt at prying his hands off. Changbin pressed a thumb into the underside of Minho’s chin, forcing him to keep his gaze up. "Seems like you've been living a fine life, haven't you, detective Lee?" Changbin taunted with a manic edge.

The years had made his features sharper and his visage more mature, but the eyes that glared at Minho with unadulterated wrath glimmered the same soft brown in the scarce sunlight.

Minho channeled all his strength into a swift kick to Changbin’s side. Given the uncomfortable angle, all he achieved was shocking Changbin into loosening the hold around his neck, but it was more than enough of an opening to aim a rough shove at his elbows and push him off. Before Changbin could regain his balance, Minho lunged forward to tackle him to the ground.

Changbin had gotten stronger during the time they hadn’t seen each other, but so had Minho. He wouldn’t forgive himself if he lost, not after having come so far, not when it mattered the most. Straddling Changbin, Minho landed a quick succession of punches on his face and jaw to keep him down. With each jolt of pain from the collisions he felt his accumulated misery pour out like a river.

"Are you happy now?!” Minho shouted. His voice echoed inside the spacious building, anguish amplified and rattling the air around them like a brewing storm. “Is this finally what you wanted? Was it worth it killing so many people who have nothing to do with your anger at me?” The blood that began dripping from his abused knuckles mixed with the splats of dark red staining Changbin’s face. When Changbin’s head lolled to the side in a punch-drunk daze, Minho grabbed him by the shoulders and roughly shook him. “Snap out of it! This isn't the kind of person you are!"

"And you think you know what kind of person I am?” Changbin grumbled, words slurred and half-drowning in the blood pooling in his mouth. “After so long spent acting like I was never a part of your life?” Abruptly, Changbin reached up to grab onto Minho’s back and trap his arms in a tight grip. He swung a leg to the side and flipped their positions over with the inertia, pinning Minho to the ground with a growl. “You still have the nerve to think you can decide for other people!"

Minho was quick to block Changbin’s subsequent attempt at a hit and retaliated with a hard strike right below Changbin’s sternum. Taking advantage of the moment when Changbin’s air was all but knocked out of him, Minho sharply sat up to shove Changbin back and off him. 

Changbin took this as a chance to increase the distance between himself and Minho. Initially, Minho assumed he was trying to retreat and catch his breath due to the amount of damage taken, but once he saw where Changbin was headed, a surge of dread quickly pushed him to his feet.

A sequence of deafening bangs tore through the air as soon as Changbin picked up the gun that had fallen to the ground. One of the bullets only grazed the side of Minho’s thigh before he managed to hide behind one of the enormous empty crates left around. Minho bit his lip to keep in any yelps of pain, face contorted in pain. As quickly as he could without making any sound, he rushed to find a place to hide and ducked behind the remnants of a broken assembly line nearby.

Minho could hear heavy footsteps atop concrete.

"I trusted you. I was willing to do everything for you.”

Changbin’s voice sounded nearer and nearer.

“There's no way you didn't realize that.”

It was as if Minho’s skin would rupture from the pounding of his own pulse.

“After everything we've been through, did I really mean so little to you that you couldn't even spare me an explanation before you ran away?"

None of Minho’s wounds hurt as much as the tight coil he felt in his chest.

Minho grabbed a piece of debris lying on the ground by his hiding spot. He didn’t even dare breathe, hushed by the fear of losing his chance. Time teetered on a cliff’s edge for what seemed like an agonizingly long while until he concluded Changbin couldn’t be more than mere steps away. One last time, he allowed himself the selfishness of hoping for the best.

With all the strength he could muster, Minho swiftly threw the debris to the side. A loud clang resounded in the dim space once the piece collided with the first surface in its path. Everything he had achieved thus far and all he wished to achieve rested on a gamble, on the fickle assumption that Changbin would reflexively look away following the noise. He chose that precise moment to spring up and strike.

Changbin was a breath too late in returning his attention to Minho. Another gunshot whistled through their desolate corner of the world, but Minho had already caught Changbin’s wrist in a steel grip. Where Minho’s mind and heart failed him, his body remembered; the close combat skills ingrained in his muscles and bones ran deeper than any fear. With practiced smoothness he used his free arm to bring Changbin as close as possible and throw him to the ground with one fluid move.

Once Changbin hit the floor, he tried to get to his knees and stand up, but Minho kicked him back down. Minho pressed the heel of his foot between Changbin’s shoulder blades and twisted his arm, more than enough to make it hurt. A shrill scream pierced through the room, followed by the sound of a gun dropping to the floor.

Minho watched it all from above, emotions boiling inside him to the point where he felt numb. "I did it all exactly because you meant the world to me.” He twisted even harder. The shrieks rose in volume. “You have no idea how much I loved you.” The pain etched onto Changbin’s face shattered something inside him, he couldn’t stop himself. “So much that I thought you'd be better off without someone like me."

Changbin fought to keep his eyes open. He used whatever ragged breath he had left to speak. "I would've preferred for you to hate me if it meant you wouldn't leave."

Abruptly, the tight hold was released. Changbin immediately curled in on himself on the floor, clutching his shoulder with shaky gasps for air. It took a while until the pain began to subside. Once he regained enough strength to turn over onto his back, he found the pitch black hollow of a gun’s barrel staring straight at him.

Even emptier were Minho’s eyes, as if death itself had possessed him.

"I did miss you,” Minho said, voice unwavering. “More than you know.” The way he cocked his gun had an unforgiving sense of finality to it. “Last words?”

In the slowly fading sunlight, a smile rose on Changbin’s face.

“Thank you.”

Silence stretched taut between them. Minho’s grasp on the gun tightened until his fingers hurt, until his hand began shaking. His knees started wobbling next. Each blink only made his vision blurrier. Breathing came with a searing kind of ache. He crumbled bit by bit, until there was nothing left to hold onto.

Minho tossed the gun aside with one weak movement. He fell to his knees, weighed down by all the sorrow a single heart could hold. The sobs broke free like a river shattering a dam. He could barely stand upright without trembling heavily, could barely do anything but cry and cry until he poured his soul out.

An arm wrapped itself around Minho’s shoulders and pulled him forward. Warmth enveloped him, the way he hadn’t experienced in a horribly long while, and he wanted nothing more than to melt into it. When he buried his face in the crook of Changbin’s neck, he remembered what it felt like to be at home.

"I won't leave you here,” Minho whimpered, sealing the promise into Changbin’s skin with all the tears that rolled off his cheeks. “Not like this. Not until we make everything right again." Blood-soaked fingers bunched up the fabric of Changbin’s shirt and tightly clung to him, as if he’d disappear.

He didn’t. Side by side, leaning onto each other for support, the two of them made their way outside with staggering steps. Much like the wilting sunflowers guarding their path, with enough time and endurance they were determined to grow back into what they once were.

**Author's Note:**

> \- i chose a prompt that's far from my comfort zone to challenge myself as a writer and i'm gonna be dead honest with you i almost dropped out of the fest on several occasions and had multiple crises in multiple people's DMs about this work. the writing process was a BITCH  
\- headcanon: after chan got killed, minho rose in the police department hierarchy and used his newly acquired status to bury all evidence and investigations of changbin's murders so he could keep changbin safe  
\- i had no idea how to wrap this thing up and the closing paragraph underwent at least 6-7 fundamental changes  
\- jisung aka han is my favourite motherfucker in this fic and i was so sad i didn't have the room to elaborate more on his relations with minho without skewing the focus of the story; i might write a whole separate fic with an information broker one day, who knows  
\- i almost killed woojin instead of chan  
\- the setting in the final scene probably seems like i pulled it out of my ass. not entirely wrong. the whole abandoned building idea sounds cool in my head so i just hope the vibes i was aiming for managed to come across in my narration
> 
> self-depreciation aside I did pour a reasonable amount of effort (and pure spite) into this fic so I hope you enjoyed reading it, even if only a little bit.


End file.
